Secret Isaac (29 page)

30

H
E
got past the customs booth at Kennedy. Where were the guys with handcuffs and the warrant for his arrest? No one touched the “Commish.” It was a good year for murder. They let you strangle old men in the water these days.

The “Commish” got his chauffeur on the line. “Christianson, it's me. Turn on your sirens. I'll expect you outside Aer Lingus in eighteen minutes.”

Christianson wouldn't disappoint his boss. Isaac was tucked away in his rooms at 1 Police Plaza before his hands could turn cold. A button lit up on his telephone console. It was the Mayor's “hot line” to Police Headquarters. Isaac could have let that button glow day and night. He banged on the console and growled into the phone. “Sidel here.”

“Laddie, how are you?”

“Grand,” Isaac said.

“Have you heard the news?… McNeill expired. The poor sod drowned in his own fishing pool.”

“Did you say drowned? That's a terrible pity.”

“Well, the Sons of Dingle are paying to have the corpse fly home. He wanted to be buried here, you know. We'll be having a service for him, Isaac. At St. Pat's.” Isaac had been rubbed in Kelly green. He knew all the rituals of Manhattan Irish politicians and cops. They always sing their prayers for the dead at St. Patrick's Cathedral.

“Aint he entitled to an Inspector's Funeral?”

Only Isaac could call out the color guard to honor a dead cop. The PC plucked his chin. He wasn't sorry that he'd pushed McNeill's face into the water.
I'd murder him again and again
. But why should he forgo the honor guard for Coote? Thieves had to be laid to rest like any other man.

Isaac said goodbye to the Mayor and rang up Jennifer Pears. He excused himself for missing lunch with her. “I was out of the country. Swear to Moses … had to make a short trip.”

“Trip?” she said.

“To Mother Ireland.”

“Isaac, is that where your people are from?”

“They might as well … I'm Irish to the bone.”

Jennifer laughed at him. “Come for lunch … right now.”

Isaac screamed for Christianson, but he couldn't escape from Headquarters so fast. His mentor, Marshall Berkowitz, was in the vestibule. The PC wouldn't run out on Marsh. An aide brought him in to Isaac. Marsh stared at the furnishings of a Commissioner's office: the flags, trophies, pictures, drapes, the huge desk of burled oak that had belonged to Teddy Roosevelt when he was Commissioner of Police.

“Marsh, you'll have to forgive the décor. It's Tiger John's. I haven't had time to move in.” Isaac looked at the dean's broken shoes. “Is it the wife?… Marsh, has she disappeared again?”

The dean nodded to Isaac. He had bubbles on his lips.

“Why didn't you let Mangen know? His shooflies kidnapped her out of my living room … don't you remember that?”

“Mangen says he can't help me now that you're the Commish.”

Isaac put the keys to his apartment on Teddy Roosevelt's desk. “Go to Rivington Street, Marsh. She's probably there. I can lend you a few boys and a squad car. I'm as good as Dennis when it comes to kidnapping people.”

He didn't like betraying Sylvia, but he had to give her over to Marsh.
That fucking dean is the father of us all
. He taught Isaac, Mangen, and little Dermott the tyranny of moocows coming down the road. Marsh was a different man when he had his nose in a text. He could tear your lungs out with a few words on Mr. Joyce.
Did I ever tell you about Joyce's eyepatch? Don't believe his biographers. That was a perfectly good eye under the piece of cloth. He wore it to impress the beggars of Paris. So he could squeeze pennies out of them. Joyce was the biggest sponge in the world
.

He was late for Jennifer. They had to rush through nibblings of hollandaise sauce. Jenny's boy would be home from school in half an hour. It was curious business. In and out of bed, like a squirrel in the trees. Do squirrels have mistresses too? What did it mean when you could feel a child in your
mistress'
belly? And how come the worm was lying so still? It hadn't stirred since Isaac touched ground in New York City. Did the motherfucker pick up some Irish disease that was shrinking its head and tails? That little purring monster used to adore Jennifer Pears. Now the monster wouldn't purr.

Isaac could hunger for Jennifer without the participation of a worm. She kissed the bruise on his shoulder, but the Commissioner couldn't come. He stayed hard inside Jenny until the doorbell rang. “It's Alex,” she said. She got into her panties and a blue robe to greet her little boy. Isaac dressed and walked into the parlor. Alexander peered at him from the long prow of a rain hat.

“Remember me?” Isaac said. “I'm Dick Tracy.”

Jennifer laughed and unzippered the rain hat. “He's a liar. Call him Isaac. He's the Police Commissioner.”

Alexander pulled on his nose. “Do you have a gun?”

“Not today,” Isaac said. “Commissioners don't have to wear a gun.”

Isaac seemed to diminish for the boy. He went into his room to play, while his mother was stranded in the parlor with Isaac the Pure. The robe dropped to Jennifer's belly. Isaac sucked on one nipple with a mad concentration. His pants were suddenly on the floor. He lost his inhibitions with that boy a room away. He clung to Jennifer and was able to come.

“How did you hurt your shoulder?”

“It's a gift from Ireland,” Isaac said. “I had to kill a man. He was a thief and a son of a bitch.”

“Do you often go on business trips like that?… I suppose it's all right. They'll have to forgive you. We can't have
two
Commissioners sitting in jail. The City would fall apart … who are you going to murder next?”

“I'm not sure.” He kissed Jennifer on the mouth, and it was like that first kiss they'd had near the elevator, with his tongue down her throat. A girl could hardly breathe.

“What's going to happen to our kid?”

“Nothing. I'll have it, and it'll stay with me and Mel.”

“Can't I be one tiny portion of its father, boy or girl?”

“No.”

Isaac left with a scowl on his face that could have eaten through a wall. Jenny grabbed him by his good shoulder. “Weekends are out,” she said. “But you can come on Monday … and the day after that.”

Isaac crept into the elevator with Monday fixed in his head. Jennifer locked the door. She gathered the ends of her robe and pulled them close to her until she was ready for her boy. She strolled in and out of mirrors, catching the little puffs under her eyes. A lady of thirty-three. She had a husband who lusted after fifty-year-old mayoresses. Would he move into Gracie Mansion after Ms. Rebecca got rid of Sam and rolled her carpets in? They could have their politics on a Persian rug. Jenny walked into the toy room to be with Alex. He was almost five, her little man. He had a set of Lionel trains that wound across the room like the territories of an unfathomable world. Tracks snaked into one another. Tunnels bloomed. Alex presided over every switch. He could make bridges collapse, have engines explode and spit out their parts, and torture a caboose with his system of flags and lights. You didn't need a mother when you had Lionel trains.

She stooped over Alex with Isaac's seed dripping out of her. She mussed his hair. “Want an Oreo sandwich, little guy?” Alex was too busy attending all his different tracks to think about food.

Isaac was on the steps of St. Pat's, surrounded by his own Police. Fifty captains had come out in uniform to honor the great McNeill. The Shamrock Society had black handkerchiefs and mourning bands. The Irish would never disappoint their dead. Isaac could hear a murderous gnawing behind him, a gnawing of many throats. The Sons of Dingle stood in their eight-piece caps. They were with Timothy Snell and the Retired Sergeants Association. Old Tim mashed his throat as hard as any Dingle Bay boy. His eyes were shot with blood. “Timmy,” Isaac said, “did you fly in with the corpse? It's a pity he went and drowned himself.”

“Murderer,” Tim pronounced under his breath. “The best Chief we ever had. He meant no harm to you … Isaac, you better not stand in the open too long. You might twist your leg and fall. You'd have a lovely time bumping down St. Pat's.”

“Quiet, you prick. This aint a castle in Screeb. I rule here. The Irish sit under me. You know, Tim, I keep having this dream. It's about little Dermott. He's still wired up in the park, just the way you left him. He says, ‘Isaac, do me a favor. If you catch Tim Snell, wire him to Delancey Street'… go on back to your funeral party before I shut down the Dingle Bay and steal your fucking sauna. You won't have a room to piss in. Move, I said.”

Old Tim shrugged at Isaac and joined his fellow mourners. He marched up the stairs and went into the big church with the Shamrocks, the Sons of Dingle, and the Retired Sergeants Association. Earlier Isaac's honor guard had raised the bier out of the funeral truck, struggling with it on their shoulders until they got it into St. Pat's. Isaac didn't go inside. He'd lend his honor guard, but he wouldn't join the Requiem for Coote. He remained on the steps with his hands in his pockets.

He whistled to himself. The melody cracked on him. Isaac couldn't blow air. His cheeks contorted and his mouth turned grim. He had the shakes. Something was diving near his groin. His guts twisted in and out. The “Commish” had a corkscrew in his belly. Mother Moses, that worm had been lying in wait. The monster picked its moment to get at Isaac. What did it mean? Was Isaac in some kind of heavy labor? The worm was going to give him twins. A gypsy and a blond Jew. Baby Dermott and baby Coen.

Ooooooo! His knees waltzed out. Isaac had to sit on his bum. Celebrants ran up the stairs to be with Coote McNeill. Cops were arriving a little late. They saluted their Commissioner, paused, and went in. It was funny seeing Isaac with his knees in his face.

Another lad arrived. It was Tiger John, handcuffed to a “screw.” Isaac had bullied the Corrections Department into letting John out of Riker's for an hour so he could come to the funeral.

“Morning to you, Isaac.”

Isaac's mouth puffed like a dying fish.

“That man needs a glass of water,” John told the screw.

The screw wasn't concerned with Isaac. He shook the handcuffs. But John refused to walk. “Isaac, should I get one of the priests for you? They must have a glass of water somewhere in St. Pat's.”

Isaac pushed on his ribcage like a bellows and brought up bits of air. He belched out a few words to Tiger John. “You can go in, Johnny … I'll be fine. How are they treating you over there?”

“So-so,” the Tiger said. “I get the Commissioner's grub. Piss and black pudding … They let me teach the fundamentals of banking to all my little brothers.”

The screw yoked on the handcuffs with one fist, and John had to crawl. Jesus, they were a funny pair, that Corrections officer and the old “Commish,” with their rumps climbing together. Isaac was going to tell the screw to ease up on poor John, but the worm gathered under Isaac's ribs and uncoiled itself with a squeeze of its tails. Isaac tore his collar away. His windpipe rattled. His fingers turned blue. The little bastard was out to choke Isaac the Brave.

He couldn't rise up from the stairs. Isaac had to lull that creature to rest. He started to hum.

There was once a Commish

Who lost his mind

On the steps of St. Pat's.

He'd killed one lad too many.

He went to Ireland

To cure himself

But he couldn't break that habit

Of getting people killed.

Isaac the Commish

He brings carnage

Wherever he goes.

The worm must have liked the humming it got. It began to let go. The tails disappeared from Isaac's ribs. He was still too weak to get off his ass. He sat with his ruined collar, while the Fisherman had his Mass.

Two bodies came out of the church. Mangen and his shoofly, Captain Mort.